


The Tin Man

by james



Series: Tin Man [1]
Category: Leverage
Genre: AU, Character of Color, Cyborgs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-08
Updated: 2010-11-08
Packaged: 2017-10-13 03:13:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/132228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/james/pseuds/james
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eliot was created in a lab, a cybernetic soldier.  Now he's trying to learn how to be human, finding a family and falling in love along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tin Man

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to all my alpha readers for cheerleading me through the rough draft and thank you to storm_petrel for the beta! All of the incredibly gorgeous art is by Deanna Wesson.

  


Eliot walked up to the theatre, still telling himself this was a bad fucking idea. He'd been telling himself that since he'd checked the voicemail on his 'public' phone number, the one he used for job contacts and the few people he pretended to call friends. When Sophie had left her message, time and day and ticket for him at the Will Call window -- he'd told himself it was stupid.

He'd flown to Boston anyhow, checked into a hotel and located the theatre, scouting the neighborhood by reflex and trying to decide if he wanted to pick up a date for the show or if dragging some poor unfortunate to see Sophie Devereaux trying to act would be considered cruel and inhuman.

As he left his hotel and walked to the theatre, he'd argued with himself about why he wasn't just turning tail and running, telling Sophie a sob story about getting stuck in Bogotá, under fire from drug lords and rescuing orphans from an asylum.

Probably she'd see right through it; Sophie had the most uncanny ability to sniff out a lie that Eliot had ever seen. _Most lies,_ he told himself, grateful that the lies that never got spoken could still slip past even the best grifter he'd ever met. He was grateful for that much, that he'd had a few months last year, working with people as a team who didn't know who or what he was -- pretending that he was something else, something the band of thieves had considered normal.

Perhaps it was that he'd been missing, and had come here hoping for one more night of it. Seeing Sophie's play, spending some time with her afterwards, no doubt, telling more lies about how good her performance was and Eliot Spencer could be just another hitter and thief in a world where sometimes thieves really were the good guys.

Glancing at the theatre bills in the display cases, he realized suddenly what he'd actually come to see: the play was a musical. Sophie would be singing.

Eliot suppressed a shudder at the realization. Maybe she'd have a small part, a speaking role only, or even a bit part with no lines at all. He found himself hoping briefly before logic smashed its way through, reminding him that Sophie would never invite him to watch her stand in the background being part of the scenery.

He paused outside the theatre. There was still time. He could walk right past and head to the restaurant he could see halfway down the block. Grab dinner and be gone before Sophie realized he was there.

As he debated, Eliot saw a pair of couples walk into the theatre, talking and laughing. He felt his stomach tighten; young people, nineteen or twenty, carefree and enjoying their evening. Possibly drama students from Boston University, judging by the way they were dressed and the way their discussion was punctuated with such words as 'quintessential Neo Post-Modern' and 'contrived nuances.'

One of the girls caught him watching and she shot him a flirtatious grin. The boy on her arm followed her look, and his gaze traveled up and down before he gave a disdainful sniff and said something to the girl. She laughed and gave Eliot a wink, but slipped through the door as the boy held it open for her.

Eliot just watched them go, standing on the sidewalk and thinking -- he really ought to be smarter than this. There was no excuse for coming back; no reason to be in the States at all, and certainly no reason to head into the theatre and ask for his ticket and set himself up for three hours of dubious entertainment for the sake of...what? Nostalgia for a con he'd run on himself last year?

Only the thought that Sophie would look for him, made him go inside. Why on Earth she'd invited him, he didn't know, but she had and Eliot knew she would ask after him to learn if he'd picked up his ticket. She'd look for him after the show, possibly even during if she could see into the crowd. Lying about her performance would be easy -- she'd see right through it but Eliot would make the attempt to be polite and supportive and she would gracefully let him. But not showing at all would be more disappointing for her than admitting her performance stank.

Well, Eliot reconsidered, it might be worse to tell her that. But an admission of a mediocre performance he could get away with, far better than claiming he was too busy getting shot at by terrorists to attend her show. Even if it _was_ the stupidest thing he'd done since going back and telling Nate Ford that working together as a team had been fun and maybe they could do it again.

Eliot scoffed to himself, keeping his face neutral as the gentleman behind the window searched for a ticket under the name Eliot Spencer. _Fun._ He still didn't understand that one either, except that it _had_ been fun, and a nice change of pace to work with a team on jobs that had been decidedly less dangerous than his norm. Leaving when they had, had been well-timed. His first job back in the field had shown him how sloppy he'd gotten, fighting street punks and common security guards and letting Nate do most of the thinking for him. Six months had got him back on track, and this...could be simply a vacation. Visit Boston, try out some of the famed seafood restaurants before heading back out to Thailand or Denmark for his next job.

Eliot forewent the concession stand, but stopped and spoke with a young woman for a moment; she was attending with a friend, but no boyfriend, and if she was already here then she wouldn't blame him for dragging her to the show. The night might not be a total loss, Eliot thought, as she agreed to meet him for drinks after the show. Eliot gave her a smile and turned to go -- and stopped as he recognized three faces in the lobby.

 _Of course she'd invite them as well,_ he thought, forcing himself to walk over with a casual air. And no doubt they'd shown up for the same reasons he had -- though Nate, at least, had always shown a genuine...tolerance for watching Sophie perform on stage.

His stomach tightened again as he came to a halt, standing in the loose circle with his former partners. _Whatever they had been._ He had no stories prepared -- most of the work he'd been doing was nothing he could talk about to anyone, much less the sort of thing he would want to share with these people. Three days before he'd been in Pakistan wiping a man's blood from his hands, now he was in Boston telling himself he was on vacation to see a musical.

Eliot swallowed nervously, stammered his way through not telling them anything at all, and asked himself again for the forty-second time why the hell he'd done something as stupid as come back to these people.

 _One night,_ he told himself. _One night to tell tales and pretend it was all good, then leave and fucking stay gone._

During the show, when Sophie was off-stage and Eliot's ears had a chance to recover, he glanced over to Hardison, who was sitting on his right. He looked as stunned as Eliot felt, and Eliot wanted to lean over and commiserate with him. Right before he could lift his hand to nudge for Hardison's attention, he saw Parker, on Hardison's other side, lean over and whisper to him.

Eliot remained still and returned his attention to the stage.

~~~

 

Two weeks later he still wasn't gone. Last week he'd sat in the bar with Hardison and Sophie and gone over possible second jobs, looking for angles to hook Nate in. He'd ignored two messages offering him good jobs overseas -- good money and a better chance of violence. Instead he'd let himself extend his 'vacation' and lie to himself that enjoying himself was worth it.

He was enjoying it, there was no denying that. The teamwork wasn't anything like what he'd experienced before; his old team had all been men just like himself, built for violence and sent on missions to seek out, destroy, and retrieve. Making some poor schmuck's life a little better after getting screwed by someone with money and power had never been on his agenda, but here he was, doing it all over again.

He'd missed it, he'd admit to that much. Missed the people as well, though he told himself over again that it was just one more job, then he had to leave.

Eliot stared at the ceiling of the hotel room, glad he'd at least had the sense to refuse Hardison's offer of a condo in the same building as Nate; Hardison grinning as he promised low rent and a year free of increases from a trusting landlord. But he wasn't so far gone that he was settling down, no matter how he'd helped them knock down walls and outfit the condo next to Nate's with office space, a cool-room for the servers, and a workout room. He'd already seen Parker using it, so it wasn't like he'd made a place for himself even if Hardison _had_ left it to him to make all the decisions about type of flooring and what kind of equipment to install. He simply knew best how to outfit a workout room, and no amount of justification and lying would erase that knowledge that he'd made it exactly the way he liked it.

Eliot closed his eyes, trying to shut down the line of reasoning that insisted he was staying. He'd come back, he'd turned down job offers and helped the others con Nate into leading the team. If he had to be honest, he was making every move to stay longer. The suggested course of action was _buy a house_ and he smacked down that entire sub-process, scattering the propositions and breaking their logical connections to each other.

It would be better to go. Safer, easier, smarter. Without any effort at all he could generate fifteen reasons why he should leave and the list of countries was long, places where he could find a job within a couple days. Everything inside him said _run._

His phone rang and Eliot's hand shot out to answer it, not really surprised when Hardison's voice was on the line. "Hey, Eliot, you wanna come over and help me wrestle some furniture into place?"

Eliot let himself groan, annoyed at himself for answering and for knowing that he would say yes without even listening to all the reasons why he should say no. _I have to go to North Korea,_ Eliot wanted to say. It was what he should have said, but instead he just growled into the phone. "Why does that sound like 'Eliot, you move all the heavy shit while Hardison stands there and changes his mind where everything should go'?"

"No way, man, for real. I already have everything figured out, I know where it goes. I just need some help--"

"I'm gonna charge you."

There was a pause, then a hopeful, "I can order pizza?"

He could practically see the other man giving him that beseeching expression, trying to charm him over the phone. "Why did I give you my phone number?" Eliot demanded, but he was sitting up and locating his boots.

"You didn't," Hardison retorted. "I gave you that phone, remember? And I also have the phone number for your hotel room as well as the concierge desk and the business center in case I need to send you a fax -- might as well use a carrier pigeon, seriously -- and I have the phone number for Brown Cow Coffee across the street, where you apparently buy a regular black coffee, no sugar or creamer or anything. Not even a bagel -- how do you expect them to stay in business if you don't support them properly?"

Eliot wasn't surprised by any of Hardison's information, either. He was tempted to ask if Hardison knew the last time he'd washed his underwear, but didn't -- for fear Hardison might actually somehow know. Instead he tugged his boots on, cramming the phone awkwardly between his shoulder and his ear and telling himself that if he staying he might as well admit he was staying and route the phone connection directly into his brain so he wouldn't have to do this sort of thing.

"Fine," he said. "But you're buying pizza from Fat Mat Maroney's, and you're getting a double supreme special and no fucking breadsticks."

There was a wounded noise and Eliot rolled his eyes. But Hardison said, "Fine. But I'm getting breadsticks because if I don't Parker will do that face. Do you want to see her do that face? Because I don't. I nearly bought her a pony made out of diamonds the last time she made that face and she was making it at _Sophie._ "

"She doesn't like horses," Eliot pointed out, not wanting to admit out loud that Hardison was right.

"She'd like one made out of diamonds. Or I could fold thousand dollar bills into a kind of giant origami horse. And--"

"Fine!" Eliot interrupted. "Order breadsticks and let her dip them in jam or orange sauce or whatever it is she does with them. I want a salad, too." Then he hung up, jammed his phone into his pocket, and leaned over to tie his boots.

North Korea looked pretty damned inviting, right now. Nothing but people trying to shoot him or blow him up, and he could freely hit just about anybody he came across. He grabbed his jacket and his keys and headed out of the hotel. If Hardison told him to 'try moving it back over there' more than twice, he was dropping the furniture on Hardison's foot and leaving.

~~~

One week later Eliot stood outside an office door while Parker broke into the CFO's safe hidden within. There were seven guards in the building; three in the control room and two pair patrolling throughout. One pair was restricted to the ground floor while the other roamed the building in what was supposed to be a random pattern. Hardison was keeping an eye on them and feeding a fake loop to the security cameras outside the office they were breaking into. Nate's voice was in their ears, reminding them of things like 'don't get caught' and 'you only have ten minutes, tops, before the cleaning staff shows up.'

Eliot could hear Parker working, knew from the lack of chatter from her that everything was going well, but not so easy she was bored already. He glanced towards the stairwell, then tapped into Hardison's hack on the building's security system. Hardison was tracking the guards by their radios; Eliot watched the red lights moving, tracked their routes back for the last two hours and spotted the pattern to their movements. The travelling set of guards was two floors away, which meant they had at least six minutes before they showed, if they held to their decidedly non-random "random" pattern.

More than enough time for Parker to grab the files and them to be on their way. The far stairwell would be clear to the roof, then a quick jump over to the building next door and they'd be away, undetected.

The chatter on the guards' radios was standard check-in and report, no idle chatter over the airwaves that Eliot could overhear. So far, everything was going smoothly. He registered Parker coming up behind him; he glanced back and she nodded, letting him know she'd got all the files they'd come for. He nodded towards the stairwell and followed her down the hallway, glancing behind them again for any signs of the guards.

He heard the guard at nearly the same instant that Hardison's voice came over the comms. "Look sharp, the guards decided to skip the fifth floor and they're heading your way. You got two minutes. Less."

Parker broke into an easy run; Eliot double checked that it was only two guards they had to worry about -- though Nate's original plan hinged on their getting in and out with the files without being detected at all. Eliot calculated the distance to the stairwell, compared it to the time alloted before the guards arrived and had the chance to spot them. They were coming up the north staircase, which meant they'd have to patrol twenty feet then turn a corner before they had line-of-sight. Plenty of time.

Until Parker came to a halt beside the stairwell door and hissed, "You didn't tell me it would be locked!"

"Who locks a damn stairway?" Hardison demanded. "That's a violation of at least fourteen safety codes!"

Over the comms, Eliot could hear Nate telling Parker to get the door open fast and Parker talking back that she knew how to do her job even as she grabbed at her lock picks. Eliot turned to stand with his back to her, watching the corner where the guards would appear. The countdown ticked, Nate and Hardison both clamoring over the earbuds and Eliot had to tune them out, ignoring their useless instructions to hurry the hell up and throwing out potential contingency plans on the fly.

Eliot knew the contingency plan: take out the guards, take out any other guards alerted to the intrusion, and get Parker and the files out of the building. Forty-five seconds before the guards would see them; he had enough time to run down the hall and take them out before they could alert the others over their radios. That meant committing himself to that course of action; there was still a chance Parker would get the door open and they could get away without being seen at all.

He had five point two seconds to decide. Eliot cascaded the scenarios, weighted towards Parker and the door simply because he knew she was that good. Three point nine seconds to make his decision, and the guards were definitely on their floor now and walking down the hallway towards the corner. Parker cursed under her breath and Eliot resisted the urge to glance over to see what the trouble was.

All he could do to help was kick the door open, but the noise would alert the guards. If he wanted to do that he was better off doing so with his fists in their faces at the other end of the hall.

Two seconds and he tensed to run, abandoning all options except fight. The _snick_ of the door spun him around and he was on Parker's heels into the stairwell, shoving the door closed behind them as hard as he could, catching it to close it silently only at the last second.

"They're around the corner," Hardison said over the earbuds.

"We're on the stairs," Eliot said quietly, keeping his voice down to avoid an echo. Parker was already heading up the stairs; Eliot made sure the door had locked behind them before he ran up after her.

Distantly, he acknowledged the disappointment that he hadn't gotten to engage the guards. He'd seen their records, knew how skilled they were and knew it wouldn't have been much of a fight. The only one who even trained regularly was the one who manned the control room most often; the chance of getting to fight him had been slim, over all.

Eliot snapped his head up as Parker's footsteps stopped; a second later there was a man's voice shouting, "Who the hell are you?"

Hardison said, "I think you may have a problem."

Even as Hardison spoke, Eliot was already up the stairs, rounding the landing to see the guard who should have been in the control room standing at the eighth floor access door, glaring at Parker. Parker was up against the far wall, doing her best to look helpless and harmless and stay out of Eliot's way.

Eliot grinned. "You think?" he said to Hardison, but he was already drawing back his fist, taking great delight in seeing the guard adjust his stance to block.

The fight was quick, though the guard nearly landed one blow to Eliot's shoulder and blocked two of Eliot's own punches before Eliot swept him off his feet with a side-kick. Pulling him up by his arm, Eliot turned the guard onto his side, jammed his fist into his back, and watched with satisfaction as the man fell limp.

Not a difficult fight, and not nearly as long as it could have been if they'd had room for the guard to maneuver as his training said he would have preferred, but Eliot felt his heart beating faster as he looked over at Parker. She gave him a thumbs-up and a wide grin.

"Hey, hey, you two all right?" Nate asked after several moments of silence. "What's going on?"

"Eliot won," Parker said.

Eliot patted the guard down, and said, "He was off the grid, not carrying a radio. That's why we didn't know he was coming. But it also means he won't have been able to alert the others."

"Then head up to the roof before the others find you," Nate instructed.

Eliot rolled his eyes. "And here I was thinking we'd go to the commissary for ice cream."

Parker paused on the stairs above him and looked back. "There's ice cream?"

"Roof," Nate said, sounding irritated.

"Maybe we should get ice cream after we're out of the building?" Eliot suggested, because he really didn't know if Parker would abandon their escape in order to get dessert. Cafeteria food wasn't his idea of something worth risking an escape for, anyhow. "What's your favorite flavor?" he asked, ready to offer a compromise.

"Pistachio," Parker said, and Eliot was relieved to see her continuing up the stairs. "With sprinkles. And mint."

Mint and pistachio, Eliot mused. That would be easy enough. He'd have to get an ice cream maker; he could set it up in Nate's kitchen. "I've got a recipe for ginger peach ice cream," he said, remembering the recipe he'd found and wanted to try, but hadn't had the chance yet.

"Oh, that sounds delicious," came Sophie's voice over the earbuds.

"It sounds disgusting," Hardison interjected. "Whatever happened to vanilla?"

"Is anyone paying any attention to the fact they haven't actually escaped yet?" Nate asked, but Eliot didn't get the impression anyone was listening to him.

Parker leaned over the railing and frowned down at him. "I want sprinkles. The chocolate kind."

"Got it," Eliot told her, and he hurried up the stairs.

"Don't mind me," Nate said. "I'm just masterminding a daring break-in, the theft of millions of dollars' worth of files, and a brilliant escape."

"It's not a brilliant escape," Eliot told him. "We're running up seven flights of stairs then using ropes to jump over to the roof of the building next door."

"Vanilla ice cream with caramel syrup," Hardison said. "If you have to get fancy."

"Ew, no," Sophie replied. "Far too sweet. It's all corn syrup anyway; not real caramel."

"If I promise to buy everyone an ice cream cone when this is over, will you please focus on the job?" Nate asked.

"Jeez, Nate, we're on the roof," Eliot told him. "Unless they have air support I think we're good."

"How many accounting firms have air support?" Parker asked.

Eliot looked into the distance, then asked, "Do helicopters count?" He grabbed Parker's arm, and they ran for the edge of the building.

 

~~~

  


Two days later nobody had been shot, arrested, or made Nate yell at them; most of all the client was happy and the accounting firm was minus one crooked CFO and half a million dollars. They'd all drifted back to Nate's place once the client had been sent on her way and, on impulse, Eliot had gone down to the corner market and come back with a bag of groceries.

He didn't say anything to the others as he set himself up in the kitchen. Parker was teaching Sophie to do handstands by the far wall and Nate was pretending to read a news website while he watched. Hardison was sitting in front of his laptop, planting a few extra files for the cops to find that they'd re-created from some of the paperwork Parker had stolen. Hardison had mentioned how much more efficient digital copy was, and how much easier it would be for the judge to throw an extra ten or fifteen years towards their now-arrested CFO with all the pertinent information at the ready.

Privately, Eliot suspected Hardison had fabricated most of the files, but he couldn't find it in himself to complain. Besides, who would he complain to? Nobody in the room would be sorry to see the man stay in jail until he was ninety.

He focused on making dinner instead of worrying about what Hardison was up to. It wasn't long before the smell drew Parker and Sophie over; he distracted Sophie with a couple of lemons and a request for her to zest them. Parker, for her part, just scowled at him when he asked if she wanted to set the table.

As he worked, Eliot resisted the urge to taste the rice and lamb mixture. He knew perfectly well he'd done it right, and he'd checked each ingredient before using it so he knew there would be no surprises. Normally he'd feel free to taste whatever and whenever he liked, but he'd had to forbid Parker from sticking her finger into the pans while he cooked and she'd argued that if she couldn't do it, then neither could he.

Explaining the difference between testing what you were cooking and stealing bites had made his head hurt, so Eliot simply agreed that he wouldn't take bites of the food before it was ready. Parker was now sitting cross-legged on the kitchen counter, watching him with a suspicious frown, but her fingers were well clear of the dishes Eliot was preparing.

"Honey, I'm home," Hardison said as he walked up to the kitchen counter, seating himself on a barstool. "What's for dinner?"

Eliot scowled at him. "Lamb stew and stuffed grape leaves."

Hardison blinked, glanced around at the pots and pans, then looked up at Eliot again. "Who did what now?"

Sophie, however, looked impressed. "Magirevis elleniko fagito?"

Glancing at her, Eliot just shrugged. "I dated a Greek chef, once."

Which was a total lie, and he knew from Sophie's small smile that she knew it as well. Eliot was fairly sure she was assuming he was embarrassed to tell them that he'd studied cooking. He wasn't embarrassed about it exactly, but he didn't know how to say it without opening himself up to questions he couldn't answer. It wasn't like he could tell them he'd learned to cook by reading through every cookbook he could lay his hands on during the long, free hours after they'd finished their training for the day and before they needed to shut down for the night. Designed for only ninety minutes of recharge, the Project had somehow assumed their constructs would fill twenty-two and a half hours with training and missions and failed to allow for _recreation._

But when reflexes didn't lose their edge and your brain didn't forget techniques and muscles didn't have to recover from yesterday's workouts, there wasn't much need to spend every second of the day training. It might have been easier if they'd been allowed off the base -- but of course they only left for missions, and so they'd taken to breaking out of their barracks and into the public areas of the base, personnel offices and the tiny PX, to get their hands on anything they could to entertain themselves with.

They had quickly come to understand that the Project which had built them simply hadn't anticipated they could comprehend a thing like entertainment, much less desire it. Their requests for recreational equipment were ignored, so when they had gotten to leave the base on missions, each of them had taken to stealing whatever they could to bring back and stash away. Books, mostly, grabbing blindly whatever was within reach, language and topic irrelevant as long as it was _something_ to read. When one of Eliot's brothers had discovered a love of metal sculpting, they'd started cramming their pockets and packs with bits of wire and metal scraps as well.

Not so lucky as his brothers whose interests were easily hidden in the barracks, Eliot had never been able to sneak into the base's kitchen to do any cooking simply because it was never left unattended. By the time the last shift had cleaned up the next shift was arriving to start all over. But he'd ended up reading through fifty-one cookbooks and every time they'd been overseas and away from their handlers, he'd asked as many questions as he could of anybody he found cooking, about the recipes they were making or ingredients and techniques they preferred. But he'd never actually cooked a single thing until after they'd left the Project.

He could still remember exactly how it had felt, going into a grocery store and buying food that he'd never handled before, much less tasted. The Project had always fed them a very scientifically exact mix of proteins and carbohydrates -- a yellow mush that Eliot hoped he would never see again in his lifetime. He'd picked up almost every piece of fruit and vegetable in the store that day, testing the smell and feel of each one. He'd bought things without knowing precisely what he was going to make, knowing only that he was finally going to make _something_ for himself.

He'd followed the recipes exactly, painstakingly, tasting the ingredients at every step from raw to completely cooked, learning to match them up with the words and pictures he had in his head. It had been the first time he'd ever done anything the Project hadn't expressly taught him to do. The first time he'd been on his own, free to do and be whatever he wanted.

And the last time he'd seen any of his surviving brothers.

Shoving the memories away, Eliot scowled at the bowl of rice and lamb, scooping up a bit in his fingers to wrap in the grape leaf. He could hear Hardison still going on about the food he was expected to eat.

"I mean, it's _leaves,_ " Hardison was saying, clearly believing Eliot had been listening the entire time. "You want us to eat leaves."

Eliot shot a look at him. "Have you ever eaten a salad?"

Hardison blinked in surprise. "Well, yeah, but that's--"

"Leaves." Eliot held up one of the grape leaves, waving it at him.

"But that's...normal. This is -- are we even supposed to eat grape leaves? Isn't that for rabbits or something?"

"Dolmades are a traditional Greek food," Sophie chided, reaching over to take one of the leaves and spreading it out on the counter. She raised an eyebrow at Eliot to seek permission before picking up a spoon and scooping a bit of the filling into the center of the leaf. She rolled it up with practiced ease, Eliot noted, and he left the filling of the rest of the leaves to her.

"So thousands of Greek people can't be wrong?" Hardison asked, doubtfully.

"You eat gummi worms," Eliot pointed out. "How is that not weirder than dolmades?"

"Gummi _frogs,_ " Hardison corrected. "And at least I know what goes into them. This...this is a _leaf._ "

Eliot stared at him in amazement. He waited, but Hardison just looked back at him, eyebrows up in challenge. "You're serious?" Eliot finally asked. "Gummi frogs are made of corn syrup, sugar, gelatin, and _wax._ Carnauba wax, Hardison. Do you know what they do with carnauba wax? They polish cars and floors with it. And you'd rather eat that than a leaf?" He opted not to share the information that carnauba wax came from the surface of leaves -- Hardison could google it himself if he wanted to throw it into the argument.

But Hardison just retorted, "And you know what people do with leaves? They rake them up and burn them. Or blow them into the gutters. Leaves are yard waste, man."

Eliot scowled, hard -- because otherwise he knew he was in danger of breaking into a grin. "They use carnauba wax to make stuff waterproof," he said, instead. "And it has artificial coloring, which aggravates symptoms of ADD and ADHD." Eliot paused, then reluctantly added, "Although green frogs have BBG which they think can protect against further damage to spine injuries."

Hardison looked stunned, and a bit confused, then visibly forced himself to look triumphant. "Spinal injuries, huh?"

Eliot pointed a finger at him. "Which means I should be able to break your back and you won't feel a thing. Wanna try it?" He gave Hardison one of his better menacing looks.

Hardison quickly took a step backwards. "How about if I just eat more salad?"

"And dolmades," Eliot said.

Hardison looked doubtful, glancing over at the leaves Sophie was rolling. Sophie gave him an accusatory look and Hardison hunched his shoulders, guiltily.

"And then we get ice cream?" Parker asked.

"It's in the freezer," Eliot said, then snagged Parker around the waist as she leapt from the counter, heading for the fridge. "After dinner," he told her.

"Why can't we have ice cream now?" Parker asked.

Going for the easiest explanation, Eliot just said, "It hasn't set." He wasn't sure she'd care if he tried saying it was because dessert came after dinner and not before.

"Oh." Parker hesitated, then nodded and hoisted herself back up onto the counter. "I want chocolate sprinkles in my stew."

Eliot resisted the urge to bang his forehead on something solid. Unfortunately, there was nothing in the kitchen solid enough. So he sighed, and nodded, and Parker snatched the jar of sprinkles out of the cabinet, and took it to the table where she, at least, began setting out the bowls and silverware.

~~~

Five men, two doorways. In the room ten feet down the hall behind him, he'd left Sophie crouching behind a storage rack. Over the earbuds Hardison and Nate were shouting instructions to each other and somewhere far above them Parker was still moving, focused on getting in and getting out. All Eliot had to do was clear the way for Sophie, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time by the building's paranoid security.

Eliot noted each man's position and stance, identifying three of his targets as students of karate and another as a boxer. The fifth had no style at all, which meant he was either untrained -- or well-trained enough to know not to give himself away so soon. Eliot kept his own stance relaxed and open, one hand held up to acknowledge the fight about to begin.

From the bulges in their jackets, Eliot could see that three of the men had pistols; the man closest to his right had a knife sheath strapped to his ankle. The one on that man's left had a radio, silent at the moment and still clipped to his jacket.

Eliot met each man's eyes, waiting to see who would make the first move. The man directly in front of him grinned cruelly and gave a nod. Eliot noted him as the one in charge, then he caught the bold, ugly punch thrown at him and twisted, breaking the man's arm and dropping him to the ground.

Taking a quick step to the side, Eliot blocked a punch. Karate goon #1 drew his fist back and Eliot kicked him, hands flashing out to catch karate goon #2 as the man launched himself forward. Pivoting, Eliot threw him into one of his comrades and drove his palm into the karate goon #1's neck. He dropped; Eliot turned to the guy in charge, dodging a punch and getting his knee into the attacker's midsection.

Another punch, another spin, and Eliot blocked a kick, threw a punch; he grabbed another man's arm and turned, throwing him into the wall. A fist landed a blow on his back, and Eliot let the momentum carry him two steps forward then turned, catching a high, over-handed punch well before he came close. He drove his fist into the man's nose, kept hold of the man's arm even as he screamed, trying to grab his face with both hands. Eliot hit again, a solid blow to the man's solar plexus and let him fall.

Karate goon #3 entered the fray, stepping around one of his fallen comrades. Eliot stood with his back to a wall and waited. The man was grinning, eyes wide and bright with the challenge facing him -- clearly thinking he would win where his comrades had lost. Eliot simply waited, then blocked a kick to his knee, stepped away from a punch to the face and stepped backwards again to avoid a fist aiming for his mid-section.

He continued to retreat, watching the man's expression grow more eager as he began taunting Eliot with bigger, more exaggerated attacks. Eliot watched, quickly saw the pattern in his moves. Kick, punch, punch, advance; Eliot waited one more beat then moved forward in a flash, catching the man with one hand around his neck and trapping the man's arm in the crook of his elbow.

Eliot stood still, holding him, and watched as the man's awareness hit. He pulled against Eliot's grip and Eliot simply held him, then he squeezed his fingers around the man's throat, ever so slightly. The man shouted and thrashed, flailing now with his feet and free hand. Fifty seconds into the fight and his training had left him completely; Eliot shook his head in disappointment then spun him, wrapping his arm around the man's neck and flinging him across the room.

He scanned the room quickly, seeing, as expected, all five of the guards lying on the ground, two motionless, one groaning softly to himself. One was trying to crawl towards the door, so Eliot walked over and tapped the man's temple softly with the toe of his boot. The man froze, then nodded quickly, remaining where he was as Eliot stepped away.

"Sophie, you all right?" he asked.

"I'm fine," came the answer, and she sounded calm, if slightly out of breath. "Safe to come out now?"

Eliot opened his mouth, then turned. "Give me one more minute," he said as the elevator doors pinged down at the end of the hallway. It was their only route out -- unless Parker came down and blew a hole in the outer wall, which probably wouldn't be necessary. Eliot counted footsteps as more personnel ran towards them; seven men rounded the corner and Eliot took up his stance once more, reminding himself not to break an ankle tripping over the men on the ground.

He waited until they saw him, saw the men at his feet, then Eliot ran forward, out of the room and into the hallway. It left the five men between he and Sophie, but he was confident none of them could seriously threaten her any longer. Even if they reached her, she could defend herself well enough now, the state they were in.

Eliot grinned as the first man came up, dodging the punch and diving under his arm, knocking him back into the man behind him. There were shouts, and the crackle of a radio from the rear of the column of men, then it was a flurry of punches and kicks, twisting one man around and driving him into another, knocking one man back against the wall to have the next come up behind him. Eliot felt the blows that landed, their impact registering but the pain not at all. The rush of adrenaline had shut down his pain receptors -- a design meant to enable them to continue fighting no matter their injuries.

Two of his brothers had died fighting, unable to realize the extent of their injuries until it was too late. The Project had considered it _acceptable loss_ as the target for those missions had been reached.

Eliot simply kept careful track of the impacts to his body, not slowing down but taking note and favoring his left side when the impact there was sharp and swift.

Five more men down and the sixth pulled a gun; Eliot moved in and grabbed the man's wrist before he could take aim, bracing him with a hand to his chest, Eliot jerked the man's arm out of its socket and dropped him on the floor. He stepped forward to find the last man aiming another pistol at his head; Eliot paused and looked at him.

The man glared at him, eyes flickered to the mass of bodies lying on the floor, strewn down the entire length of the hallway. He snapped his gaze back to Eliot, who took one careful step forward. Eliot brought up his hands, slowly, palms forward like he was going to surrender. The man's aim wavered, hands trembling before he tightened his grip on the pistol and visibly forced himself to glare at Eliot.

"Down on your knees," he stammered, and Eliot took one more step forward, let himself begin to sink downwards -- then ducked underneath the aim of the pistol and dove in, catching the man's hands with his shoulder and driving them both down towards the floor. Eliot leapt to his feet and landed a kick solidly to the man's temple, dropping him unconscious.

He looked back, taking a deep breath. None of the men were moving. Two might have been dead, he wasn't certain, but neither did he bother to check. Instead he began walking down the hallway, back to where Sophie was hiding.

When he heard her shout, followed by harsh metallic clang, he burst into a run.

He found her standing at the edge of the storage shelves he'd left her behind, holding a long metal pipe in her hands. Karate goon #1 was standing in front of her, back to Eliot. Eliot didn't pause; he moved in, dropping the man with a blow to the back of his head. The guard collapsed instantly, and Sophie calmly watched him go down. Then she looked up at him and smiled.

"Shall we go?" she asked, and Eliot heard the timbre in her voice she was striving to control.

"Unless you wanted to pound on him a bit," he offered. "I hear it's good for stress."

Sophie looked down, then shook her head, wrinkling her nose slightly. "It's no fun if they're unconscious already," she said, and she sounded almost like herself as she finished saying it.

Eliot gave her an innocent look. "You want me to round up a conscious one?"

She blinked at him, then smiled -- a genuine one, finally. "Maybe next time," she said, and she set the pipe aside with a glance, as if surprised to find she was holding it.

"Then how about we get out of here," Eliot said, and he stepped aside when she nodded, letting her take the lead. He saw her pause as she came into the room, saw her glance towards the bodies lying about. But she stepped past them without comment; Eliot saw the man he'd threatened before still lying in place, looking up as they went by. He made no attempt to move, however, and Eliot left him alone as he hurried along after Sophie.

He catalogued the impacts to his body as he ran. Most were of no consequence, but the one at his back would have to be checked. He could feel something shifting slightly, and knew from his schematics that had he been stabbed, as it felt like, it would have hit metal and wires instead of flesh and bone. He reached back when Sophie's attention was firmly ahead of them; he felt the sticky fluid leaking from the wound. Bringing his fingers around he confirmed it was the clear fluid of lubricant and not the dark red blood of his organic systems.

Which made it more problematic to repair, if the wound turned out to be serious. For now he'd just keep it hidden form the others until he could get away and check the extent of the injury. Luckily his skin would repair itself quickly enough that he wouldn't have to hide it for long. He made sure to keep his back away from Sophie's line of sight as they got into the elevator and rode up to the ground floor. He let her go ahead of him and slipped a small piece of clear tape out of his pocket and worked it onto his fingers so he could get it into place over the wound's entrance on his back. That would keep the fluid contained until he could give himself a more through check.

Then he simply followed Sophie, keeping his eyes out for any new threats, but finding none as they exited the building and walked calmly across the street to Hardison's van.

 

~~~

They were halfway back to Nate's condo when his pain receptors switched back on. Eliot was expecting it and was able to keep his breath even so as not to alert the others, but he gritted his teeth as waves of pain erupted from his back. He could feel now that the wound was deep as tendrils of pain leaked out from the injury. When he twisted just right he could feel that something was definitely damaged. He hadn't noticed any loss of function, so nothing vital and urgent had been severed, but from the slight tink and catch in his side as he moved, he wondered if something hadn't been broken.

He kept his eyes on the street ahead, watching through the front windshield as Hardison drove. Nate and Sophie's voices drifted in and out of his awareness as he focused on his diagnosis and tried to control the pain. He heard his name mentioned once, but they weren't talking to him, just about him, so Eliot ignored the conversation.

Slowly, he began a check of the rest of his body. He flexed his fingers and moved his hands, tightening the muscles in his arms, shoulders, and jaw before moving on down to his legs and feet. There were no new bursts of pain, and other than his back it was all the dull throbbing of bruises. Nothing felt broken and there was nothing else that seemed out of order. He looked up, hiding his surprise as the van stopped; they'd arrived back at Nate's condo. He followed the others upstairs, hoping the mid-job briefing and planning session would be short.

He wasn't sure how quickly he could get away from the others, since now that step two of Nate's plan was complete, he would be anxious to get on with step three. Even as he thought it, Nate clapped his hands together and announced, "OK! We've planted the bug and Sophie has set the hook -- now we just need to wait for Harper to give us enough information to hang him with. And with Eliot's fortuitous little dust-up, we can further convince Mr. Harper that he is being targeted by his competitors."

"So we've got the rest of the night off," Eliot said quickly, forcing himself not to sound too eager.

"No, no," Nate said, looking surprised. "We should--"

"We should take the evening off," Sophie interjected. "Nate, I don't want to spend the night following Harper around and waiting for him to say something incriminating. Isn't that why we planted the bugs? So we could record it?"

Nate frowned. "But we can give him a little push. Sophie, you could accidently meet him when he goes to dinner, and Eliot, you and Parker can--"

"Or we could let the bugs do their job, and wait until morning," Eliot interrupted. Nate blinked at him in surprise. Eliot thought fast. "I've got tickets to the Bruins game tonight."

Nate rolled his eyes, looking not at all impressed, but Sophie took Nate's arm and said, "There's a film at the Darkside Cinema that's only playing tonight. I don't want to miss it when we don't _have_ to be working." She gave Nate a pleading look, one which Eliot conceded was a lot more enticing than his own.

Reluctantly, Nate nodded. "Fine. We can wait until morning. Though if he hasn't given us the information we need then we're not going to just sit back all week and wait for him."

"Of course!" Sophie said, quickly. Then she smiled. "Why don't you go change and pick me up at my flat in an hour?"

Nate stared at her. "What?"

"Well, you're taking me to the cinema," Sophie said. "I need time to shower and change into something more...me and, really, Nate, you need a clean shirt." She wrinkled her nose, giving the shirt in question a light tug.

"But I--" Nate began, but Sophie turned him and gave him a push towards the stairs. Eliot watched him go with a smirk. He was grateful to Sophie's intervention, no matter how unintentional, to convince Nate not to make them work all evening.

He was just turning to leave when Hardison walked over. "So, Eliot, you're going to the game?"

Eliot just nodded. He needed to get home and see to his injury. Most likely a knife wound, which hopefully meant anything broken or severed had been done cleanly. Usually that meant the repair work would be simpler.

"You, uh, you mind some company?" Hardison asked, looking both casual and awkward at the same time.

Surprised, Eliot opened his mouth to say no, then stopped. The thought of catching a Bruins game with Hardison actually...wasn't bad. He hadn't known Hardison liked hockey, but spending three hours or so with him at a game -- made Eliot's stomach sort of contract, a little. He saw Hardison's hopeful expression start to shut down and realized he'd stood silent too long. "No, I don't mind," he said, quickly, not wanting to see that look of disappointment on Hardison's face. He wanted to kick himself for the thought, but he couldn't bring himself to really regret it.

Of course, he suddenly remembered, he wasn't _going_ to the game, and Eliot had to scramble again, hating to have to wipe that happy smile off Hardison's face.

"I only have the one ticket," he lied, feeling a little like he was going to start babbling if he wasn't careful. "It's the playoffs so they might be sold out."

Hardison scoffed. "Please. Like I can't steal myself a ticket? I could steal the whole rink for the final game of the Stanley Cup if I wanted to."

Eliot raised an eyebrow at him.

After a moment, Hardison deflated, just a little. "Maybe not if they played in Canada. But I can definitely steal myself one ticket to see the game."

Eliot nodded, and figured what the hell. He could get home, patch himself up, and meet Hardison at the rink. Except -- he wasn't going to the game, so he didn't have a ticket. He cursed, silently, in the first twelve languages he knew while he tried to think. How the hell did his brain stop working just because Hardison wanted to hang out? Finally, he just sighed and asked, "You think you can steal two tickets?"

Narrowing his eyes, Hardison's expression instantly shut down. "You bringing a date?"

Glancing upwards, Eliot shook his head and stage-whispered, "I don't have a ticket to the game. I just didn't want to spend the whole night following Harper's goons around."

There was a pause, then Hardison made a fake-shocked expression. "You lied to Nate? Eliot! That was not a nice thing to do." Then he was grinning from ear to ear and for some reason it made Eliot glad he'd said it.

"I need to swing by my place and change. No point in going to a hockey game with blood on my clothes." He stopped, then smiled sheepishly. "I mean, someone else's. I mean--" He shut himself up with a firm command to stop being a complete and utter moron.

Hardison just gave him a teasing look, but said, "Yeah, yeah. You go make yourself pretty and I'll meet you back here and we can head over to the rink."

Eliot scowled, tempted to slug him, but just thinking about lifting his arm was making his back screech in pain. He settled for scowling harder, then glanced over as Parker asked, "But why not?"

Sophie was standing beside her, she leaned over and whispered something in Parker's ear.

Parker looked surprised, then looked at him and Hardison. "You're going on a date?"

"We are not going on a date," Eliot protested, though he caught the look on Hardison's face as he spoke.

"So I can come?" Parker asked.

"I could...I guess, steal three tickets," Hardison was saying, but he was looking at Eliot and Eliot saw something there he really hadn't expected to see.

He'd seen it before, on casual one-night affairs when he'd made the mistake of staying the night and waking first to make breakfast. He saw it on Sophie's face whenever Nate stopped what he was doing and actually looked at her, however briefly.

Eliot realized his jaw had dropped open and that Hardison was starting to look genuinely angry. For a second he imagined himself saying it, telling Parker no, she couldn't come. Telling Hardison yes, and making that happy, excited look reappear on Hardison's face. He opened his mouth to say something, still not certain what it would be, when Hardison just took a step back and turned away from him.

"Why don't I just steal you two some tickets? I got stuff I should be doing anyway." He was headed back towards his laptop, and Eliot could see the confused look Parker was giving all of them, and the sad, disappointed look Sophie was giving _him._

What he needed to do was go home and see to his injury. He didn't need to be going to a hockey game, no matter who it was with. His back fucking hurt and even if it wasn't serious, he wanted to lie down and get himself repaired.

"I'm sorry," he found himself saying, quietly. Hardison didn't turn around, but Eliot saw his shoulders flinch, just slightly.

Without glancing back at Parker and Sophie, Eliot just turned and headed for the door. He tried not to think about hockey games and Hardison, and what might have even come after if things had been very, very different.

If maybe he'd been human, and could have said yes to a friend wanting to be more.

~~~

  


A quick look at his back showed Eliot that it was, indeed, a knife wound. Juggling the extendable handheld mirror, he quickly determined he simply couldn't see anything more than the surface of the wound. Sighing, Eliot conceded that he was going to need help with this one.

Luckily, Doc Martinez was just over in upstate New York, close enough that Eliot could drive there tonight. He would have to take his truck -- riding his bike would be faster, but excruciatingly more painful. He'd done similar before when there was no choice; given the option he would opt for less pain and more comfort.

Before he left he sent her a message; no point in making the drive if she was unavailable. But within a few minutes she sent a response back: _I'll be here._ So Eliot locked up his house and drove west -- the very house he'd argued with himself about buying, telling himself it was absurd and a waste before finally relenting to the shaky logic that a house would offer him more privacy and it certainly wasn't like he couldn't afford it. Even with only a third of the money left from the check Hardison had handed him after that first job, there was more than enough for a house in Brighton.

The bulk of his money had gone directly to Doc Martinez. When the Project closed down she had taken what she could -- and what Eliot and his brothers had smuggled out -- and set up shop for them. It wasn't like they could go to a regular doctor when something broke down and she had always been the only one of the Project's employees who had seen them first as people and secondly as constructs built in a lab.

She'd even tried to re-socialize them once they'd returned to the base to begin their missions; the Project had initially taught them how to act human by throwing them into Basic Training with eighteen year old recruits who didn't know what was training beside them. Before Basic Training it had been labs and surgeries, and no interaction that could have been called human, at all.

The Project had only wanted them to be soldiers; Doc Martinez had seen them trying to learn how to be more, and had done what she could to encourage them. Much as he'd liked her back then, Eliot had never trusted her with his desire to learn to cook. Inside the Project there were very few chances to keep a secret, except in the barracks he and his brothers had secured for themselves. But Dr. Eidelman had never objected to Martinez talking to his creations as if they were people; only stepping in to correct her when she went too far. She'd tried to celebrate Christmas with them one year, bringing in cookies and tiny, wrapped presents. Eidelman had chided her for her misplaced emotions and dumped it all in the trash.

There was a reason why Eidelman had been the only casualty when the Project had folded, though that small incident had been the tamest of the lot.

But Doc Martinez had earned the affections of the soldiers she'd helped make, and now she also served as their only doctor, in a carefully hidden laboratory, furnished and funded by such endeavors as Eliot and his brothers could undertake. Eliot suspected he wasn't the only one to hand over a check worth millions; the truth was, parts and repair work for a half dozen biologic-machine hybrids was pretty damned expensive. The need for secrecy made it even harder, and thus more expensive. The Project had shut down due to budgetary reasons and Eliot and his brothers had been listed as de-activated and destroyed.

In reality they had snuck away, using their Project-given training and a fortuitous window in security courtesy Doc Martinez. But members of the Project were still around, many still on the government's salary and Eliot knew if any of them learned that their creations were still active, there would be hell to pay and a lot of people, Martinez included, would be in danger.

All of which meant he was cautious as he approached Doc Martinez' farm, driving straight past the long, obvious driveway that went up to her house. Instead he continued past, turning onto a small dirt track hidden among a grove of trees. It led up to the rear of a barn; the sensors recognized him as he drew near and the double doors swung open, and Eliot drove inside and parked.

He let himself through the doorway at the rear of one of the empty stalls, into a recessed storage closet. As the door slid closed, another opened and he hurried down a short flight of stairs to the lab.

Two of his brothers had built the place, digging out the over-large basement for the barn and carrying in the equipment. Eliot and the others had scattered across the globe, working whatever jobs they could to raise money to funnel back for the construction. Eliot had only been here a few times since.

He knew the place well, though, as not much had changed. New pieces of equipment here and there, but overall it was simply a large room, outfitted as an operating theatre and workshop. There was a table in the center of the room, and beside it was Doc Martinez herself.

She gave Eliot a smile as he walked in; Eliot found himself smiling back, and resisting the urge to go over and hug her.

"You know, I keep telling you boys you can visit without bleeding," she said lightly, smiling at him though her eyes flashed dark, not quite hiding her worry. She looked no older than she had the last time he'd seen her, no older, really, than the first time he'd laid eyes on the scientist who had introduced herself to him with an out-stretched hand -- the first, and for a very long time the only human to ever bother doing so. She was fifty-four, now, and Eliot wondered if she would still look the same twenty years on, with her kind, dark eyes and long, thick black hair wound up in a bun, and a wide, cheerful face that always had held a smile for him.

Eliot ducked his head, thinking of an excuse she might actually believe, but finally just settling on, "Yes, ma'am."

She patted the table and Eliot went over, pulling off his shirt and lying down on his stomach. He'd re-patched it with another clear bandage, though the skin had already begun to close. He felt her peel it off and begin checking the damage.

"Do you want to stay awake for this, or would you rather sleep?" she asked a moment later. Her hand touched his shoulder, gently. "I know you don't care for it, mi hijo, but I can run a more thorough diagnostic and do your other repairs."

"I just need that patched up," he told her. He didn't like being switched off, even when he knew he was perfectly...probably safe. It wasn't the same as shutting down at night; being switched off meant waiting for someone to switch him back _on._

There was a pause, then, in a very knowing tone, she asked, "And you've done nothing at all in the last two years that might have caused any damage?"

He opened his mouth, then stopped, and glanced over his shoulder at her. "I might've," he admitted. "But nothing's been bothering me--"

"While these bruises here look fresh as this wound you're showing me, those on your leg look several days older. And the scar on your shoulder is new since last time. As is the one above your left elbow."

Eliot ducked his chin, down against the table, then looked up at her. "There might've been one or two fights." Forty-seven, precisely, as long as he didn't count the incidents which involved him hitting someone else once and taking no hits, himself.

She gave him a look like she knew the number he'd thought to himself. "So maybe I should run a full diagnostic?"

"I have to be back in Boston in the morning," he offered, as his last and only line of defense.

"I'll have you up and around in time," she said, giving his shoulder a pat. "Unless I find damage that's too extensive, but I can wake you up and let you know before I start anything that will take longer than tonight to fix."

"Thank you," Eliot said, and he rested his head back down on his arms. He felt her hand touch the back of his neck, fingers combing through his hair gently for a moment, then there was nothing.

~~~  
`  
EidelmanOS version 2.1.3 (C) 2000 EIDELMAN PROJECT United States Executive Branch  
ELECTRUM SELACHIMORPHA BIOS REVISION 2.1.3  
ES-6 SYSTEM BOOT  
Initializing CPU subsys syntheticgrid  
Syntheticgrid firewall established  
Initializing Biologic Interface System  
BIOS Cranial Interface Established  
Initializing Communications Node  
Receiver/Transmitter Functioning Normally  
Network Connection Activated  
Reading Diagnostic System ES-6 Node 5  
Diagnostic Reads Normal  
Electrum Selachimorpha Unit 6 Online  
Software Update 2.1.3 Installed  
Error Log: CYM Maintain More Regular Contact With Support`

~~~

Eliot opened his eyes slowly and saw that he was still lying on the table in the lab. It felt like he had only shut his eyes seconds before, but a quick check of his internal clock showed that it was nearly five in the morning. He shifted, making sure everything seemed fine before pushing himself off the table. His hands and feet were cold; he realized he was barefoot as the chill of the concrete floor registered. He found his boots, socks and shirt set neatly on a chair and he got dressed, then headed upstairs.

In the barn his truck was right where he'd left it; he hesitated, knowing that he could simply get in and drive back to Boston. Doc Martinez would probably be asleep now, having been up all night working on him. But instead of getting into his truck, he turned and walked out of the barn, and headed up to the house.

The house was quiet and Eliot was careful to move silently. He went into the kitchen and looked around, then gathered up a few things. He could spare an hour before he needed to leave, knowing that Nate wouldn't likely expect him to show up much before eleven. Scones and a breakfast casserole could be made quickly and left in the fridge for later.

Eliot had the casserole in the oven when he heard the stairs creak; a moment later Doc Martinez came in, wrapped in a thick terry robe over a pair of flannel pajamas.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," Eliot apologized.

"Está bien, Eliot. I was upstairs reading. I'll be up for another couple hours yet, then I'll take a nap, later." She gave him a smile, and headed over to the coffee maker. She paused, and took a sniff. "You're making breakfast! Gracias, mi hijo."

Concentrating on the dough for the scones, Eliot just shrugged. "Seemed the least I could do."

"It's too bad you can't stay long enough to make me some tamales," she said, her tone teasing.

Eliot laughed. "Next time, I promise. But I really do have to get back to Boston."

As she poured herself a cup of coffee, Doc Martinez gave him a measuring look. "Boston, mm? You're still working with Mr. Ford, I take it?"

Eliot's jaw dropped and he gaped at her. The last time he'd seen her had been three months before he'd joined Nate's team. As he stared, she smiled at him, calmly. Mentally shaking his head, Eliot sighed. "Yeah, I'm still working with them. We're in the middle of a job, that's how I got that knife wound. I couldn't exactly tell them where I was going, so I have to be back before they realize I've gone anywhere."

She sat down at the kitchen table, holding her cup in both hands, taking a moment to simply enjoy the smell of the coffee. "Two years. You must like working with them," she said, leadingly.

Ignoring the question of just how she knew, Eliot nodded. "Yeah, I do." As he finished up the scones, he started telling her about some of the jobs they'd done. He ended up sitting at the counter with a cup of coffee, telling her about the team while the casserole baked. When the oven's timer finally went off, Doc Martinez hadn't said a single word; Eliot had been talking non-stop.

He gave her an apologetic grin as he took the casserole out of the oven. "I really should be going," he said, though he found himself wondering just how early Nate might be expecting him. He knew better than to disappear in the middle of a job, though. Not just because there was work to do, but if the others did go looking for him and couldn't find him, they'd suspect Harper had done something and try to mount some kind of rescue that would probably get them into trouble and risk blowing the con.

Doc Martinez gave him a smile. "It's been good to see you, Eliot. I mean it about coming by whenever you want. Or you could invite me down to Boston, to meet these friends of yours. But call at least, once in a while?"

"I... yeah, I will," Eliot stammered, hoping he sounded convincing, and pretty sure he didn't. It was barely a four hour drive to her place, Eliot reminded himself, and he looked her in the eye. "I will," he said, meaning it this time.

Her smile widened, and he could see she was genuinely pleased to see him. She always had been, once he'd stopped dripping blood and fluids on her floor. It would be nice to come visit without spending most of the time shut down in the lab.

Eliot started gathering the dirty dishes he'd made; Doc Martinez came over and took a pan out of his hands. "You best be going, mi hijo. I can clean up. You go take care of this Harper person. You can let me know how it turns out." She looked sideways at him, then added, "And make sure you apologize to Hardison."

"I...what?" Eliot replayed what he'd said to her -- he was pretty sure he hadn't said anything about the hockey game, certainly hadn't told her how he felt about turning him down.

"Judging by the way you kept mentioning his name and looking guilty whenever you did, I'd say you two had a fight, or you did something you regret," she said. "So you should apologize."

"But I can't." He didn't think he had to tell her _why_. If anyone knew exactly what he was, it was the lady who'd had her hands in his guts just hours ago.

She gave him a sharp look. "Why not?"

"Because..." Eliot waved, vaguely, at his body. "He.. I can't...He wouldn't-- There's no point."

Her stern expression suddenly melted away, and she shook her head, eyes full of pity. "Oh, mi hijo," she whispered, and she reached over, cupping his cheek with her hand. "I didn't realize. Tú lo amas."

"I don't--" Eliot began, then looked away. Suddenly she stepped close, wrapping her arms around him in a hug. He stood frozen, feeling awkward and unsteady. He had to force one arm up, to wrap around her waist, and for a long moment he simply stood there. When he finally stepped away, he couldn't quite look up at her.

"Lo siento," she whispered, and she gripped his hand, tightly. "I'm sorry, I wish...." She shook her head. "Remember to call me," she said in a more normal tone.

"I will," Eliot promised, knowing that he would -- once, at least. Let her know about Harper, and maybe he would make sure not to mention Hardison at all. "Thank you," he told her, and she gave him another smile.

"Take care of yourself," she said, then gave him another quick hug.

When Eliot left, he found it difficult not to turn back and go inside.

~~~

He stopped by his place on the way back into Boston, showering and changing clothes before grabbing his bike and heading for Nate's place. He felt a lot better than he had, not just the absence of pain from the knife wound, but the little clicks and whirrs of other injuries he'd grown used to had been tracked down and repaired.

The diagnostic report Doc Martinez had filed in his log listed each repair she'd made. They were mostly minor, but the snapped support strut in his ankle had been fixed. The bone had been fine, so he'd never thought much of it, though he definitely appreciated the repair, now. He could move his ankle without pain, had even regained complete range of motion.

There was a notation in the log about how he might have got it repaired sooner instead of limping for six months, and if he ever did that sort of thing in the future there was going to be a lecture and possibly disciplinary yard work involved. It made him smile -- then made him feel guilty all over again. He told himself he would call her once the current job was done, and try to call her a couple times a year, at least, just to let her know how things were going.

It was nearly noon before he got to Nate's place, where he grabbed a coffee from the stand next door. When he let himself into Nate's condo he found the entire team already there. As he walked in, they all turned and stared at him.

Eliot stopped. He'd checked his voicemail at the house and he hadn't missed any messages. But the looks he was getting made him think they'd been trying to find him for awhile. "What's going on?" he asked, carefully. They didn't look frantic or relieved, like they thought he'd been captured by Harper's goons. But they definitely weren't happy.

"Not a thing," Nate said, breezily. His tone made Eliot's instincts stand on edge, and he tensed. Nate looked at him sharply and asked, "How are you? Everything OK?"

Narrowing his eyes, Eliot looked at him. As far as they knew he'd been home; they hadn't tried to reach him, so they wouldn't know he'd been gone. Shouldn't know anything other than he'd been home all night. "Everything's fine," he began, giving Nate a suspicious look.

"And how is Dr. Martinez?" asked Hardison, and Eliot's coffee slid from his hand, hitting the floor with a crash.

Eliot stared at Hardison, who was looking back at him, challenging and knowing. Distantly, Eliot noticed his blood pressure had dropped, knew his face would be pale and how the hell had they learned her name? "What?" he managed, wondering if maybe he was still shut down on the Doc's table, and she'd finally given him the ability to dream.

"Saw your truck headed west," Hardison said, clicking the remote to make the computer screens behind him come to life. There was a shot from a traffic camera, then another, clearly showing his route to upstate New York.

"But how do you--" Eliot began, and he couldn't say it. How they could know about the Doc, and not know about _him,_ he wasn't sure. He could barely think, could barely drag his eyes from the picture of his truck on the highway. His profile was slightly shadowed, but it was unmistakably him.

Nate stepped forward, crossing his arms. "Eliot, if you're injured, we have to know--"

" _What?_ " Eliot snapped his head towards him. They knew who Doc Martinez was, but worse, they knew why he would be going to her. He took a step backwards, heart pounding and the maps of the building, maps of the city flashed through his mind. Escape routes, out of there and away; two routes highlighted as more preferable destinations. He didn't follow the logic trail to see where he would end up going, just noted them each in case....

Nate was looking at him, annoyed, but concerned. "If you're injured badly enough you need to see Dr. Martinez, I need to know. I can't run this team if I don't know when one of you is hurt."

"Besides, Eliot, we're your friends," Sophie said, her tone soothing, and totally lacking the false quality she used on marks. Eliot looked at her, trying to judge just what it was they thought they knew. They _couldn't_ know, not unless they'd somehow figured it out overnight in which case there would be a lot more questions, and a lot more shouting. Not this strong, direct, but _calm_ glare he was getting now.

Trying desperately to regroup, Eliot tried just glaring back. "It wasn't-- I'm _fine._ "

"So you decided to make a social call in the middle of the night?" Hardison asked. "Or are you just saying she was able to fix you up?"

Eliot glared at him hard as he could to hide the fact he wanted to run. He could feel himself trembling, jerked his muscles still and forced himself to take a deep breath. "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about," he ground out, and even if he didn't have to run right that moment -- he definitely needed to be gone. He could be out of the country by tonight, leave the fucking house and bike and everything behind. How the hell he'd let himself get seduced into working on a team for so long....

"Hardison showed us your files," Parker said, quietly, not moving from where she stood, behind the others. She looked at him, uncertainly.

Eliot had to lock his knees to keep from leaping forward. His fingers clenched as they twitched, _over the couch, left hand on her throat, tighten, turn, drop the dead body._ It was impossible that what she was saying was true, impossible that they would be so calm about it if they really knew. He tensed, tightening his grip on himself, because safer as it was he couldn't let himself give in to the instinct. _Kill them and run._

Off to one side, Hardison just shrugged. "Before that first job, I looked all y'all up," he began, giving each of them a bashful smile. "Wanted to know who I was working with. Yours took a little more digging," he said, turning back at Eliot. "When we started working together, I figured I better show your files to Nate. You know, just in case. He told Parker and Sophie about--"

Eliot gaped at him. "The _first_ job?"

Hardison paused, mouth still open, then he nodded, slowly. "Yeah, man. The job on Dubenich. When he first hired me, before we decided to make this thing a real gig."

"You're lying."

At that, Hardison glared at him, then said, slowly, "Right before our first job, I looked up each of your files. Yours said you didn't exist before 1998, so I did a little digging. It took a _lot_ of digging, but I found the Eidelman Project."

Eliot felt something stab through him at the sound of the name on Hardison's lips. "You can't have," he said, weakly, and his head was spinning.

"Why not? I'm the best hacker in the world, baby, ain't nothing they can hide from me forever." Hardison grinned smugly, buffing his fingernails on his shirt.

"Because you...you're acting like.. you can't possibly know what you're talking about."

"Why? Because it's a big hush-hush secret government project?" Hardison asked with disdain. "Did I not just say I was the best in the world?"

"Because you're fucking treating me like I'm normal!" Eliot shouted. Then he shut his eyes briefly, despite how bad a tactical move it could be. He forced himself to look at them, afraid to find out they _hadn't_ known and he had just blown everything.

Maybe he could still talk his way out of this. Maybe he could still leave.

"No, we treat you like you're Eliot," Nate said. "Just like we treat Parker like she's Parker, and she's definitely not normal. No offense, Parker."

Parker gave Nate a happy smile, then gave Eliot a thumbs up, mouthing to him, "She's crazy as a loon!"

"At least she's--" Eliot ground out, then stopped himself just in time.

"Blonde?" Hardison offered, then he subsided a little when Eliot just glared at him. "All right, fine. We all know that you were designed by the Eidelman Project to be a super-bad cybernetic soldier. Is that what you're trying not to say out loud?"

Eliot crossed his arms in front of him, knowing how much of his body language they would be reading. They would know too much -- they already knew too much. They really had seen his files, they knew what he was.

Something clicked, and he replayed Nate's comment when he'd come in. He'd been pissed because Eliot hadn't given him a sit-rep about his injury. They'd known what he was for nearly two years and had never, in all that time, once mentioned it. They'd treated him like he was just another member of the team. Like he was human.

He looked at them, bleakly. "I'm not human," he said, feeling his throat try to close up. Words he'd never said out loud before, he wanted to wrench them out and undo them, make none of this real.

"Technically, you're a cyborg," Hardison said. "72% human DNA, 23% cybernetics, 5% shark DNA which, man, is just _damn_ cool."

"I know how they fucking made me," Eliot snapped.

For a moment, Hardison simply looked at him, expression never wavering. Then he lifted the remote again, clicking over his shoulder at the screens behind him. The picture of Eliot in his truck vanished, replaced by a series of articles and websites. "One of the leading fields in medical prothesis is the development of robotic limbs, which can take signals directly from the brain to direct movement. Additionally, advances made in pacemaker technology as well as insulin pumps are making such devices more efficient and accurate, due to the computer chips controlling them. Cochlear implants, similar to the design of the earbuds y'all wear, are a cybernetic technology--"

"What's your point?" Eliot interrupted, though he had a feeling he knew what Hardison was going to say. Some of Doc Martinez' own work had 'mysteriously' found its way into a lab in the UK, and was being used to help rehabilitate patients.

Hardison rolled his eyes, briefly. "My point is that there are cyborgs _everywhere,_ from deaf kids to soldiers with their limbs blown off, to people who've been paralyzed and can't speak or move but can communicate with their families with the help of a neurological implant called a BCI." He clicked off the screens, and frowned sternly. "My _point_ is that if you get hurt and need a doctor you don't need to sneak off in the middle of a job without telling us."

Parker asked, "I thought that was Nate's point?"

Hardison glanced back at her without any trace of anger and he said, "I'm borrowing it."

"Oh." Parker nodded.

"Eliot?" Nate asked, and Eliot braced himself. But Nate just nodded towards the floor. "Don't forget to clean that up, will you?"

Nate wandered away, then, heading over to the couch and sitting down in front of his laptop. Parker looked at Eliot for another moment, then went over to sit on the couch beside Nate, putting her feet up and wrapping her arms around her knees as she stared at the screen while he typed. Sophie walked into the kitchen, and Hardison just stayed where he was, watching Eliot.

Eliot looked down at the coffee he'd dropped. He shook himself to go get a rag or something, then looked up, confused, as Sophie came over holding a towel. "Here," she said, handing it out, making no further comment other than giving him a smile.

"Thanks." Eliot took it and crouched down, sopping up the spilled coffee. The polished wooden floor wouldn't stain at least, but he was annoyed because the barrista had finally made his coffee exactly the way he liked it. He didn't think he could tempt fate by going down and buying another one -- though it would at least give him an excuse to get out of there.

He didn't flinch much when Hardison sat down on the floor beside him. "Seriously, man, you all right?"

Eliot nodded. "I'm fine." He glanced up, then reluctantly admitted, "It was just a knife wound. Severed a piece of--" He stopped, not wanting to say it out loud. Wiring, and tubing of lubricant that connected to his hips. He would have lost mobility in his legs eventually if the lubricant had all leaked out, but there was no serious damage done.

But Hardison just nodded. "That's the real reason you didn't wanna spend the evening following Harper's goons around?"

Again, realization slammed into him, and Eliot rocked back on his heels and stared at Hardison. "You've really known? All this time?"

"Yeah, man. I've really known." He looked over, and all the bluster was gone, just the same comfortable camaraderie that made him easy enough to work with when he wasn't talking mile-a-minute about crap Eliot had never heard of.

"But you... asked me out. To the game."

Hardison frowned, glancing away before looking back. "Look, I just thought...I mean, you seem interested sometimes, and I just figured--"

"But you know that I'm not human."

"Bullshit, man. We just had that conversation. Cyborgs are human, just..." He waved a hand. "With additional components." He tilted his head, clearly waiting for further argument, then his eyes widened. "Is that the reason you turned me down?"

Eliot felt himself blush, and ducked his head.

"Seriously? So the answer is really yes, you were just freaking out?"

"No, the answer was--" Eliot stopped. He swallowed, and thought about it. Hadn't he wanted to say yes? If he'd been human, he would have. But he'd always known he couldn't, because of what he was -- only Hardison knew, they all knew, and for some reason they didn't seem to think he was a freak.

Compared to Parker, at least, which was saying something. Or possibly saying nothing. Was being a machine worse than twenty pounds of crazy shoved in a five pound bag? He looked down at the coffee-stained towel he was holding in his hands. "I--"

Hardison leaned closer. "Did they not give you a..." He waved his fingers downwards, towards Eliot's crotch.

Eliot blinked, then realized what he was asking and growled. "Of course they-- I'm not a eunuch, Hardison. I'm just--" Just what? It was really fucking hard to think clearly with Hardison sitting right there, treating him like he had all along, like he was part of their team and a friend, and...human. He still wanted to beat the shit out of someone, and if Hardison kept pushing it, he was going to be the first candidate.

"So you've had sex before," Hardison said, and Eliot narrowed his eyes.

"Yes, I've had sex before." Hardison was about ten seconds away from getting his arms ripped off and his larynx crushed.

"With a guy?"

"We were talking about going to a hockey game, not inviting you over to spend the night," Eliot reminded him.

And Hardison just blinked at him in surprise. "Oh, so you've never _dated_ before."

Instead of beating Hardison senseless, Eliot twisted the towel, nearly tearing it in half. "Why are we having this conversation?"

"Because, man, I still wanna go out with you, but I need to know where we stand. And you're gonna hurt Nate's towel if you keep doing that."

"I'm gonna be hurting you in a second if you don't stop."

"Have you ever gone on a date? I mean a real one, not part of a con?"

Gritting his teeth, Eliot said, "I have dated, and yes, I have done the whole routine from dinner and movie and sex and breakfast the next morning and before you ask yes, I've slept with guys before as well as women so what is your fucking problem?"

Hardison raised an eyebrow. "I'm trying to figure out what your problem is. I mention sex and a hockey game and you act like I'm asking you to move in with me." He glanced down at Eliot's hands. "You ever been on a second date?"

Eliot threw the towel down and stood up. Hardison got to his feet as well, and put a hand on Eliot's arm. Eliot flinched, stopping himself from knocking Hardison's hand away -- possibly breaking it in the process.

Hardison stepped closer, and spoke quietly -- though Eliot knew the others could hear every word, and wouldn't even be pretending not to be listening in. "You ever been in love before?"

Eliot glared, but he didn't answer. He didn't try to move away, either, because between Hardison and Doc Martinez, he was beginning to feel exhausted. Cornered, as well, and as much as he wanted to fight his way out, he didn't honestly want to hurt Hardison.

He wanted to go to a hockey game, wanted to have dinner and a few beers and listen to the man talk about TV shows and movies he'd never heard of, and try to guess the origins of the names he used for their fake badges. He wanted to argue with him, knowing that it didn't mean anything more than what it was, knowing that it was just a game and the second they stopped the animosity would be gone.

"I've been on a second date a couple of times," he said, trying to sound like he wasn't shaking inside.

Hardison smiled at him. He took a step forward and Eliot took one step back, then another and his back slammed up against the door. Hardison just advanced again, then he put his hand on Eliot's face before leaning in and kissing him. Eliot stood still, letting him, trying to kick his brain into some kind of gear where any of this made sense.

Mostly, though, he noticed that Hardison was kissing him.

A moment later Parker said, "I stole some tickets for you."

Eliot broke away from Hardison's kiss and looked at her. He'd heard her walking over, but Hardison clearly hadn't, judging by the way he'd jumped when she'd spoken. Eliot wondered if he should point out the barely-muffled high-pitched squeak Hardison had made. Probably, but perhaps not right that moment.

Parker was holding out a couple of tickets; Eliot reached over and took them. "Game three is in Vancouver," she said, excitedly. "But game four is here in Boston so I stole you tickets. Sophie said you'd have made up by Friday, which is when the game is. And she said if you hadn't, then I could go to the game with Nate."

"These are good tickets," Eliot said, then glanced sharply at her. "Parker, you stole these from someone who's looking forward to the game. Normally I wouldn't care, but these are the _playoffs._ You can't--"

"Oh, it's OK. Nate made me steal them from a scalper." She paused, then smiled. "I stole more than two." Her grin widened, turning decidedly mischievous.

Hardison looked from her to Eliot. "Do you think we should ask what she did with the other tickets?"

Eliot shook his head. "I don't wanna know."

"Then maybe we can get back to what we were doing?" Hardison pressed in closer, slipping his hands onto Eliot's hips.

"Or, here's a thought," Nate said from the couch. "We could do something about this guy named Harper, whom we promised our client we would take care of?"

Hardison thought about it, then shook his head. "I like my plan better."

Eliot didn't tell him to duck when Nate threw the couch pillow towards his head. As Hardison sputtered and turned an accusatory glare at _him_ , Eliot just shrugged. "You need to work on your reflexes."

Inside, his heart was still pounding. It was still possible he was dreaming, or that Doc Martinez had tried again to develop an anesthetic for them and it had a lingering side-effect of inducing hallucinations. He looked around the room, still pressed against the door with Hardison's hands on him and his body leaning up against his own. Nate, Sophie and Parker all looked like nothing strange was happening. Stranger than normal.

When he turned back to Hardison, he saw a quiet look in the other man's eyes that made Eliot wonder if maybe he understood. Eliot opened his mouth, then closed it again when he realized there was nothing he could say.

Hardison gave him a soft smile, then pressed a soft kiss to Eliot's lips. Then he asked, "Did you say you make breakfast the morning after?"

Eliot just scowled, which for some reason got him kissed again.

~~~

  


Sitting in the back of Hardison's van, they all stayed quiet as Nate went over the plan of attack -- again. Harper had had a chance to get nervous, but he hadn't jumped yet so Nate was wanting to put a little more pressure on him. Sophie was to 'bump' into him and drop a few hints about contacts she'd had from one of his competitors while Parker wandered through the building on a whispering campaign, dropping comments about unnamed employees who had been offered lucrative positions if they left Harper's company.

"Eliot, you'll be on stand-by in case of trouble," Nate began, then he paused. "You're sure you're all right?"

Eliot just gave him a flat look. "I'm fine. How many times do you want me to say it?"

"Okay, okay." Nate held up one hand. "Position yourself someplace with easy access to the third floor as well as the ground level lobby, since Parker and Sophie will be--"

"I know my job," Eliot snapped, not so much irritated as restless with Nate's redundancies. They should be inside already, not sitting in the van, and Eliot was itching to get going.

"Fine," Nate said, crossly. "While you three are inside, Hardison, you're going to--"

"Be spoofing some emails with office gossip and setting up the fake website where Harper can go find out that somebody is headhunting his executives. I know." Hardison glanced over at Nate. "I'm already doing it."

Nate sighed. Then he 'shooed' Sophie, Parker and Eliot. "Well, get going."

Eliot walked into the building with Parker, leaving Sophie to make her own, more grand entrance. He and Parker wanted to blend in and go unnoticed, not be connected to the woman Harper had become mesmerized by recently. Eliot paused inside the lobby near the directory, scanning the area. The only security guard was a typical cookie-cutter minimum wage lackey, meant to look intimidating in the uniform but with no real training other than 'be polite to the important guests.'

He saw Parker get onto the elevator, already with an access badge in her hands. Eliot turned from the directory and headed for the stairs, taking note of the security cameras -- the fifth on to the north was broken. The others had a nearly-invisible red indicator light shining; that one was dark. He slipped into Hardison's hack into the building's security system, wanting to double check if it really was off. He found the cameras easily, checked the map of them on the security center's screens to confirm the dead spot.

"Seriously, Eliot, don't you trust me?" Hardison's voice came over the earbud.

Halfway up the first flight of stairs, Eliot hesitated for half a step. "Excuse me?"

"I'm flattered that you like my hack, but dude, a little more finesse would be nice."

Eliot stopped, and glared at the far wall as if Hardison could see him. "What are you talking about--" Oh. "You can see...?"

In a tone that was amused, and a little bit...something else, Hardison said, "Man, I see you every single time you jump into my hack. It's cute, actually, but maybe you should let me show you how to do it with a little more sneak and a little less blunder? I mean, for a cyborg you should really be--"

He stopped talking as Eliot severed his connection to Hardison's computer and yanked himself back as fast as he could. He shored up the firewall behind him, aware that he didn't know if Hardison had ever broken it. But he would have noticed, if Hardison had ever hacked into him.

Wouldn't he?

"Hey, Eliot," Hardison was saying, his tone full of apology. "I didn't mean you had to run. I just meant... you know I'd tell you if there was something you needed to know. Or you could just ask."

"Sorry," Eliot muttered, feeling embarrassed. Maybe more than embarrassed. "I'll stay out of your way." He continued up the stairs, wondering if he should risk trying his own, direct hack into the building's security to get the scans he wanted. But Hardison would be likely to notice, and the whole reason he'd always piggy-backed on Hardison's hacks was that hacking just wasn't his forte. He had the hardware for it, but not -- as Hardison had so kindly reminded him -- the expertise to go unnoticed.

JS-5 had always done the hacking for them when they'd gone on missions. Jason's input/output was sleeker than anything the rest of them had been given, built expressly to be their communications specialist. He'd been shorted most of the physical advantages his brothers had, his thin wiry frame nowhere near as strong or resilient as the rest of them. He'd been killed only three years after being activated, shot in the chest four times while they had desperately tried to get to his position and draw away the fire.

Eliot rubbed one hand across his face, trying to shove aside the memory. After JS-5 there hadn't been another specialist, and Eliot and his brothers had taken turns trying to do the best they could on their own. Doc Martinez had made sure they'd all gotten upgrades so they had the best hardware to work with, but Jason hadn't ever had the chance to teach them how to use it properly, as Hardison had just vividly reminded to him.

Eliot reached the third floor, aware that Hardison had fallen silent. None of the others were talking to the team; he could hear Sophie speaking to Harper and now and again Parker's voice came over the comm as she planted her rumors. Eliot went to the floor-access door and put a hand on it, wishing he could see the security camera on the other side. He could hear well enough to count how many people were there and roughly how far away each was. The floor was carpeted, which made it harder to tell if the footsteps were the heavy shoes as he would expect from the security guards.

He jolted in surprise as a message came over his text-relay; for a moment he thought it was Doc Martinez, as she was the only one to ever text him once the Project had closed and his brothers had gone their separate ways. But a quick look at the headers showed it was from Hardison's laptop. He glanced at the message.

 _I'm sorry._

He stared at it, wondering how Hardison had gotten the address, then told himself he was probably being fourteen kinds of stupid. Hardison had his files, had seen every fucking time he'd stumbled his way into Hardison's own computer. Tracing him and figuring out how to send a message was probably child's play.

 _Forget it,_ he sent back.

 _No,_ came the reply. _I shouldn't have said all that, especially not over the comms for everyone to hear. I'm sorry._ There was a pause, then another text came through. _Please come back._

Eliot stared at the message. He didn't want to go back in, hating the thought that he would be clumsy and obvious. But he needed to see the camera feeds, and he was used to getting the information he needed as soon as he wanted it, through Hardison's computer. If they hadn't been working, Eliot knew, he would just ignore him. But the job came first. Reluctantly, knowing that Hardison would be watching and would see him blunder in, Eliot re-connected to Hardison's computer and searched for the hack into Harper's building.

He blinked in astonishment as he found a string of code waiting for him. He looked at it and realized it was a password. Hardison had built a door for him.

He used the password and slipped inside, locating the camera feeds and ignoring Hardison for the moment. The office on the other side of the door was clear of security, so he settled in to wait where he was, halfway between Parker on the second floor and Sophie on the fourth. As Parker worked her way up, so would he, keeping himself within equal distance of both of them in case of trouble. Harper wouldn't have forgotten that someone had defeated twelve of his men; if Parker or Sophie were discovered, Harper wouldn't react kindly.

He sent Hardison back a text from his own network connection, rather than trying to send it through Hardison's computer itself, not wanting to accidently mess with anything Hardison had going.

 _Thanks._

 _You're welcome, anytime._ There was a pause then, over the earbud Hardison said, "I still get breakfast the next morning, right?"

Eliot stifled his grin, then composed himself and growled, "Nate, will you please hit him for me?"

"I'm not getting involved in your domestic disputes," Nate replied easily, sounding as if he didn't know or care that he'd missed most of their conversation.

"This isn't a domestic dispute. Just smack him once," Eliot said. "You know you've wanted to before. I'm giving you permission to do it, now."

There was a sort of muffled cough from Sophie, who was still talking with Harper and keeping her cover intact. There was a laugh from Nate, and Hardison just said, "You hear that? You ever smack me any other time and you'll have him to deal with." He sounded smug.

"I'm thinking this job isn't hard enough," Nate just said. "Maybe I should call in an anonymous tip to the FBI and get them down here just to shake things up and give you people something to do."

"Oo, can we?" Parker asked. "I want to be the felon!"

"Parker, you're already a felon," Eliot reminded her.

"But the FBI no longer has any files on me," she said, and it sounded to Eliot like she was pouting. "Hardison got rid of them all. Not that they ever had much to begin with. They actually thought I wasn't the one who-- Oh, hi! Did you hear that Fred's leaving?"

Eliot shook his head, resisting the urge to thump his head against the wall. Missions with his brothers had never been like this. Part of him wished for the focused professionalism that came from working with highly-trained soldiers. Another part of him liked the fact that he'd only been shot at twice in the last two years, and had only been nearly blown up once.

He wondered briefly where his brothers even were, then he heard footsteps coming towards the door and backed away from the door and headed up one flight of stairs. He peeked down to watch as the door opened and Parker slipped into the stairwell.

"What are you doing?" he asked, coming back down to the landing.

"The whole company's talking about people getting better jobs," she said. "Before I even get to places, people are talking about it. I don't think I need to keep walking around whispering at people."

"The power of company email and the water cooler," Hardison said. "Gossip's all over the place."

"Parker, you can come back to the van," Nate said. "Eliot, I want you to stay where you can reach Sophie."

"Got it," Eliot said, then he jerked away from Parker's hands. "What are you doing?" he hissed.

"Trying to tell if this is one of those metal struts," Parker replied. "You never stand still long enough for me to feel properly. But now that you know I know, I can."

Eliot blinked at her, trying to remind himself that she was crazy as a loon, and telling her off would probably not have any impact.

"Uh, Eliot, is she feeling you up?" Hardison asked.

"No, I'm feeling him down," Parker replied, as her hands worked down from his shoulder towards his elbow. There was a strut there, laid against the humerus. Eliot didn't know how obvious it was underneath the muscle, but if anyone could feel it, it was probably Parker.

He sighed, then picked up her hand and shifted it slightly to the left. "Here," he said, brushing her fingers against the line of the metal.

"Oo, I can feel it!" She grinned at him, then suddenly moved her hands towards his back and he twitched away from her.

"Watch it!"

"OK, hold up. Where is she putting her hands?" Hardison demanded.

"She's--" Eliot began, then smiled. "You sound jealous."

" _I_ haven't even got to feel you up, and she's got her hands all over you," Hardison complained.

"He feels nice," Parker said, her voice just a bit too sultry for Eliot's comfort, despite the fact he knew she was teasing. He hoped she was teasing.

"Can we please focus on the job?" Nate asked, whining just a bit and sounding like he probably didn't expect an answer.

"I'm done," Sophie suddenly said, her voice low. "Harper got called away to deal with an urgent matter." She sounded triumphant; clearly their campaign to put the pressure on was working.

"OK, everyone, let's get out and see if Harper's ready to hang himself," Nate said.

"And Parker, stop feeling Eliot up," Hardison said.

Parker frowned at Eliot. "But I want to see if I can--"

Eliot grabbed her wrist, lightly. "Let's go," he said, knowing it would only delay whatever it was she wanted. But better back at Nate's condo, than the middle of a stairwell.

Well, better not at all, but for some reason he found it incredibly hard to refuse Parker anything. Most of the time it was because she went ahead and did it anyway, no matter what someone else said about it. The rest of the time it was just...easier to give in than to follow her logic well enough to argue with her.

As they headed down the stairs, Eliot kept an eye through Hardison's security hack on Sophie, making sure she was getting out of the building without incident. He ignored Parker's wandering hands, trying not to flinch whenever she found something under his skin that wasn't biological.

"What's this?" she asked as they reached the ground floor, her hand on the back of his neck.

He could hear Hardison grumbling so he paused, then raised his finger to 'shh' Parker before he said, "Darlin', if you've never felt one of those before, maybe you shouldn't ask."

Hardison began shouting over the comm, demanding to know what Parker was doing. Eliot and Parker both clamped their hands over their mouths to muffle their laughter.

"I'm so glad we can do our jobs with professionalism," Nate sighed.

~~~

The Bruins won game four of the playoffs, and afterwards Eliot went back to Hardison's place. The next morning Eliot made breakfast, and for the rest of the weekend Hardison almost completely succeeded in not looking like the cat that ate the canary.

As the days progressed Eliot couldn't stop feeling jittery, flinching whenever any of the team got close and halfway expecting that he'd open his eyes to discover he'd been strapped down and was well on his way to being dismantled.

The others never commented on it, though he knew they noticed. Hardison just kept up a steady stream of chatter, occasionally remembering to talk about things Eliot actually knew something about. Eliot didn't know if he should start trying to watch some of the hundreds of TV shows Hardison kept referencing, or if the blank and somewhat annoyed stare was really the reaction Hardison was going for.

Sophie pretended like nothing had changed, and Eliot had to remind himself that, for her and the others, nothing really _had_ changed. They'd known all along and had simply never discussed it. Sophie didn't ask questions of any of them about their personal lives, so for her there truly was nothing different.

Nate didn't ask either, but he got more obvious about the fact he was taking Eliot's cybernetic abilities into account. Parker, on the other hand, acted like the reins were completely off and felt free to do and ask as she liked, whenever the urge popped into her head. Eliot found it was slightly easier to just answer her questions and do whatever she asked -- letting her run her fingers over his ribcage or demonstrating just how strong he really was.

After he'd set the edge of Hardison's van down, Hardison had bustled Eliot inside the van and proceeded to demonstrate something of his own. Eliot had filed away 'muscle kink' on his list of important things to remember about Hardison.

For Hardison's part...everything changed, but Eliot didn't think that very much of it had to do with what he was. Rather, it had to do with what he was to Hardison -- his boyfriend.

Eliot continually rolled the words around in his head, not at all comfortable with them but at a loss for a better alternative. He didn't know why it made him feel off, unless it was simply such a normal word, one that teased him to think of himself as something he wasn't. But every time Hardison kissed him, or pressed against him, skin to skin, or simply rolled over in bed and flopped an arm across Eliot's body before falling asleep, Eliot felt just a tiny bit more human.

Of course he only lay in bed for long enough that Hardison fell deeply asleep, before slipping out and going about the business of amusing himself for the bulk of the night. Those nights he was at Hardison's place he didn't dare risk shutting down, but neither did he go home in the middle of the night to shut down in private. He hadn't told Hardison about his need to shut down and so far his lover hadn't mentioned it either. But Eliot knew better, now, than to think that mean that Hardison didn't already know.

It was probably something they should talk about, Eliot figured, but he knew he wasn't ready for that just yet. Instead he just always waited until morning, then he begged off going in to work with Hardison, arguing his way into heading home for a couple hours of unspecified need. Let Hardison think he had delicate plants that needed care, or a pet goldfish that needed feeding. He didn't ask, afraid to broach the subject with a lie in case Hardison retorted with the truth.

He'd also made his promised call to Doc Martinez, the Sunday after the job was over and he had escaped home for a break from Hardison's determination to have a marathon session of sex. He'd been careful not to mention that part to the doc, but she'd managed to wheedle enough out of him that she'd expressed her joy in the same breath as she'd pestered him to allow her to meet the new man in his life.

Two weeks later and he still wasn't sure what to do about _that,_ and was dealing with it by refusing to think much about it. In the meanwhile Nate had taken another job for them and it had ended up taking three days and one broken collarbone to complete. Eliot ranted silently to himself about having broken an actual bone, instead of something that could have simply been removed and replaced. He resigned himself to wearing a sling for three weeks and being careful of his right arm until he regained his strength. Luckily it had been simple enough to snap back into place himself, avoiding the argument about going to see Doc Martinez.

At the moment he was on the couch in Nate's place, scowling at Hardison who was bent over his laptop, typing furiously.

"I thought you said you had satellite hook-up," Eliot said.

"Please! Do I look like I have anything as archaic as satellite hook-up? I'm getting the direct feeds from each of the cameras at the arena, including the one outside taking picturesque shots of the skyline, each one going to a different screen," Hardison gestured at the screens with one hand while still typing with the other.

"Then why isn't the game on?" Eliot demanded. He didn't ultimately care about the game itself; the Boston Celtics were a good team, but really Eliot just wanted to see _someone_ play basketball and didn't so much care who it was.

Watching third-rate fifth graders would be better than staring at the ceiling thinking about all the things he wanted to do and couldn't. Not because of limited mobility, but because Parker and Sophie had taken to hovering over him whenever he tried to get off the couch. Parker kept _bringing_ him things: iced tea, books, a bag of candy corn and a small plastic rocket launcher.

He'd actually appreciated the rocket launcher, aiming the foam rockets at Hardison's head until Hardison had completely unfairly distracted him with a kiss and stolen it.

For the moment Eliot had given in, figuring he might as well watch the game and let someone else bring him popcorn. At least he would if someone would get the game on and stop fiddling with his overly-complicated setup. He was about to find an audio stream of the broadcast online and listen to the game inside his head when there was a knock at the door.

"Right on time," Nate said, as he headed over to answer it.

Vaguely surprised that Nate had lined up another client so soon, Eliot mostly ignored him as he watched Hardison failing to bring the game up. Then he heard Doc Martinez say, "You must be Nate Ford. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

Stunned, Eliot spun his head around as Doc Martinez walked in, carrying her bag. "Dr. Carmen Martinez," Nate said, introducing her to the room at large with a sweep of one arm. He pointed out each of the team, and Eliot didn't think he imagined the way her gaze sharpened when Nate said Hardison's name.

Then she looked at Eliot and frowned. "I understand you tried to set a broken bone by yourself."

"It was a simple break," he began, but her frown deepened and Eliot felt himself shrink back. "The bones didn't completely separate," he offered, but when she just shook her head at him, Eliot ducked his head. "I'm sorry?"

To his right, Parker made a sudden, happy noise and she jumped up. "You're Eliot's mom!"

Eliot spun his head around, gaping at her. "No, Parker-- she's not my mother." He looked over to Doc Martinez, trying to figure out how to explain, finding himself a little surprised that Parker, of all people, didn't get that someone who helped raise you wasn't necessarily your parent.

"Eliot," Doc Martinez said in a tone he knew far too well.

He frowned. "She doesn't mean--" he said, and Doc Martinez gave him that _look._ Not sure exactly what he'd done to earn it, Eliot sighed and fell back against the couch. There was a snicker from Hardison and Eliot just kicked him in the thigh.

"Let me take a look," Doc Martinez said, moving over to stand behind the couch, leaning over to touch his collarbone with gentle, practiced fingers. There wasn't much pain, and Eliot didn't wince when she found the place where the bone had broken. She made 'hm'ing noises to herself, apparently oblivious to the way everyone in the room was staring, watching them.

After another moment she straightened up and said, "I'll want to scan it, but it appears that you managed to get the bone back together cleanly. Though Lord knows how; the last time you broke it we had to fuse the bone together."

"I remember," Eliot said.

"Last time?" Hardison asked, looking interested before apparently realizing it might not be a _good_ story and his face fell, clearly scrambling for a dignified way to retract his question.

But Doc Martinez laughed. "He flew over the handlebars of his motorcycle, trying to avoid hitting an animal that was running across the road. What was it, mi hijo, a raccoon?"

"Opossum," Eliot replied. He'd stolen the bike on the last day of a mission, his brothers all covering for each other by making it appear that the job was taking slightly longer than it had. They'd each spent a few hours doing whatever they could -- playing, Doc Martinez had said, when they'd snuck Eliot back in with his left arm strapped to his side. Billy had had a line of bruises down his side from falling off a skateboard down a flight of steps as he'd tried to re-create a stunt, and Stu had needed stitches over one eye and had refused to tell any of them how he'd gotten them.

"Told you," Parker whispered, leaning towards him.

"Parker, that's not--" Eliot began, then stopped himself. Arguing with Parker was a losing proposition, he reminded himself, thinking that clearly he needed to have the doc hard-wire that into his cortex.

"Keep your arm in the sling," Doc Martinez scolded, and Eliot realized he'd been reaching to intercept Parker's hands.

"Give her back her keys," Eliot told Parker, and Parker smiled shyly.

"I didn't mean to," she said to the doc. "Not really. I mean the keys were just reflex while I was stealing your billfold." She held them both out and Doc Martinez just smiled at her.

"I used to keep candy at my desk for the boys and they were always sneaking in to steal it. I didn't think to bring any with me," she said to Eliot, but Eliot saw the look on Parker's face at the comment, lighting up at the mention then falling when she realised there wasn't any.

"You get a reward for treating your broken bone yourself?" Hardison teased.

Eliot started to retort, then switched gears. "You want a reward for getting the game on the screen before we miss the entire first half?"

Hardison looked at him, one eyebrow raised, and he hit a button on the remote. All of the screens came to life, showing the basketball game, only twenty-three minutes in. Eliot reached down and pulled out a piece of candy corn and held it out.

For a long moment, Hardison just stared at it. Then he looked at Eliot. "Seriously?"

"I'm not offering you a blow job in front of the doc," Eliot said, scowling harder, ignoring the fact that she'd been the one to tell them all about things like condoms and penicillin. "Do you want to stay to watch the game?" he asked her, though he had no idea if she even liked basketball.

"I'd love to, mi hijo," she said, her eyes soft and shining. She patted him on the arm and let Nate show her to a spot on the other couch, then everyone got themselves settled and Sophie brought drinks and Parker bounded into the kitchen to make more popcorn. She brought back the bowl, along with a can of Cheese Whiz.

"That's disgusting," Eliot told her, but she paid him no mind.

As he settled himself back against the couch, Hardison shifted over, leaning himself ever so slightly against Eliot's shoulder, taking care not to put any real pressure on Eliot's injured arm. Eliot considered his options, then just scooted his foot over against Hardison's. He caught Hardison's smile out of the corner of his eye, and past him he saw Doc Martinez next to Nate. On Nate's other side Sophie had made herself comfortable, while Parker was still squirting cheese onto her popcorn, to Eliot's left.

It was a weird, completely abnormal little group, but Eliot had to admit -- they were his family, and he wouldn't trade them for the world.

"Parker, stop that," Eliot snapped, ten minutes later.

"But I like to make them suffer before they die," she replied, dancing the corn chips in frenzied death throes towards the dip, complete with choking sounds and begging to be spared.

He thought about throwing something at her, but didn't. It worked fine with Hardison, but Parker would throw it back, hard as she could, and as skinny as she was she was pretty damned strong. Eliot smiled at her charmingly as he could, and asked, "Hey, Parker? You know what would be nice?"

She looked at him, eyes narrowed in suspicion, but with a smile playing about her lips.

Eliot gave her an innocent look, knowing she could see right through it. "There's this leather scabbard in the National Museum of Mongolia that I've always wanted. It's in excellent condition for being so old -- and I've got this long knife that would fit perfectly into it."

"Leather?" Parker said, disdainfully, but he could see her interest was piqued.

"Well, it's encrusted with rubies, but mostly--"

"Oh!" She sat up straight. "I know that one! You want me to get it for you? I can do that." She slid off the couch, obviously ready to leave the country right then and there.

"Parker, sit down," Nate said. "Eliot, be nice."

"I can't sit here and watch her torturing corn chips," Eliot protested.

"Sending her out of the country to steal you a scabbard is a little overkill though, don't you think?" Nate asked patiently, eyes still on the game.

"Actually, there's this little bracelet in that same museum," Sophie said, suddenly. "I've had my eye on it for awhile, but never saw the point in making a trip all that way for just one little piece of jewelry."

"Awesome!" Parker jumped up. "We'll be back in two days. Maybe three if Sophie makes us stop in Rome on the way back."

"Parker, it'll take you that long just to fly there and back," Hardison pointed out.

Parker shrugged. "Yeah? Have you ever been to the National Museum of Mongolia? No security whatsoever. Walk in, walk out. Ten seconds, tops."

Eliot cleared his throat. "Actually, that's not true. A private donor has taken an interest in the museum, after he added some items from his personal collection. I think you'll find it a bit more of a challenge than that now."

"Oh, good!" Parker looked excited, as Eliot had expected her to. "Come on, Sophie!"

Eliot looked over to find Nate watching him, an incredulous look on his face. "Are you really sending them to Mongolia because she was playing with her corn chips?"

He made a face. "No, it's because of the Cheese-Whiz. I need her out of the country while I destroy every can of that stuff they ever made."

At that, Parker narrowed her eyes again and leaned over to grab her canned cheese. She tucked it securely in the crook of her arm, still glaring at Eliot as she walked towards the door.

"Well, every can but that one," Hardison said, sounding almost sincerely sympathetic.

Nate sighed again, then looked at Doc Martinez. "Was he always this difficult?"

Eliot knew he was joking, but he saw the look on the doc's face, and saw as Nate recognized the emotion as well. She shook her head. "It took me a long time to teach them this," she said quietly.

He knew what she was thinking, how they'd been made to follow orders, made to be machines, and soldiers. They'd been taught to hunt and kill and infiltrate, and it had taken years of deceit to undo even the slightest bit of that indoctrination.

She'd given them candy so they'd know what sweet tasted like, let them steal it to encourage their independence from their supervisors. She'd quietly sung them songs when she gave them their physicals and whispered suggestions on how they could take the equipment they trained with and turn them into games, competing for bragging rights instead of thinking in terms of kills. Eidelman and most of his staff had barely spoken to them except to issue orders, but Doc Martinez had soothed their hurts and listened to them when they'd finally dared talk to her.

She'd raised them, all right, from obedient machines into the people they'd finally become.

Eliot realized just how little he still knew about being human after all. She really _had_ been their mother all along, and he had never even noticed until now. And Parker, of all people, had been the first to put a name to it.

She was smiling at him, now, still sadly, still no doubt thinking of how far they had had to come, perhaps even how far they still had to go. She gave herself a little shake, and looked at Nate. "They're mostly good boys, even if they do still need some polishing."

Nate nodded, clearly appreciating what she was, and was not, saying.

Eliot waited until she turned back to him, and caught her eye. "Gracias, Mamá," he said quietly -- loudly as he could with the words getting stuck in his throat.

She sniffed, biting her lip for a moment before composing herself and saying, "But you should still call more often."

Hardison snickered at him, though it sounded a little forced, but Eliot nodded, meekly -- before scowling at his lover. He let the words settle inside him, poking at them each as he said them again silently to himself. He felt Hardison pick up his hand, holding it carefully. Eliot gave his fingers a squeeze, then shifted himself down a bit so he could rest his head on Hardison's shoulder without putting pressure on his broken bone.

They sat there, watching the game in relative silence; Hardison and Nate started cheering and hollering at the screen as they got into the game. Eliot felt too self-conscious to get into the game with Doc Martinez there, figuring that she would be watching him, judging his behavior, even as she kept turned towards the screens, watching the game with apparent interest.

His shoulder was hurting a little, but he felt comfortable and as relaxed as he ever did when he wasn't alone. Hardison was sitting as still as he could, whooping for the home team but trying not to jostle Eliot's shoulder. The sound of Nate's and Hardison's voices punctuated the action of the game and Eliot slowly realized he wasn't really watching, but was simply sitting there listening to them.

He closed his eyes, thinking idly that it might be nice to be able to drift to sleep. Instead he merely let himself sit quietly, breathing slowly and deeply until there was nothing but the sounds of the game and the feel of Hardison next to him and the faint scent of Mamá's perfume in the air.

the end

  



End file.
